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NaPo thread: Nothing Like the Sun
Pieces of inspo collected: 23
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Shakespeare's Sonnets
NaPo Deep Dive
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z
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
The [lamp is yawning] [empty] [while refueled];
The father [perches] high on [ladder stairs];
Lyric lines are stretching truths across the desert gravel,
Long mirages slowly shore their blue by one drop more.
I’ve been running low on a limited tank of love
Never reaching bottoms, always squeezing one drop more.
I trace the mother of my favourite word.
I seek the father of my special sound.
A silence travels between then and now.
Dusty desert paths are swift unfurling.
Five – remember how the fingers of your hand
tremble with all the joy and terror
of being lifted off the land.
Living and Dying together with light
receding and rippling out of your sight.
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit;
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it
Is there an issue or topic that means
enough to you? Packing peanuts spilling
your words -- the phrases you've heard - (time-filling?)
A sloping crimson graph line that leans
towards the dramatic, nodes exploding,
rope-strings of hot powerlines lassoing
hyperlinks between -- whatever you've seen.
I read, I re-read your words like a map
that was getting me lost, and not at all
the familiar puppet strings for a doll,
no wire-wisdom through a bottle cap.
8. songs while muting a poetry slam
We're too happy to be sinking, but it's fine to love the sea. If you knew what I was thinking, would you still talk to me?
down below, the night-time city, where each little neon sign is trying to stake a claim to their space --
(i wonder if each has a face?)
However soft intentions are designed,
we are wolves, and the pixel moon will bay.
But we were marketed as an epic,
crimson ribbons strapped us fast to our seats,
pulled so tight they broke our self-reflection.
We were connections between edges
and we were unfulfilled dreams,
we trojan horses [waiting for a sign].
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